Meliora
by Marauder
Summary: Pregnant with Morfin's child, Merope longs to escape to a life with Tom, and a better world for the child she hopes will be a girl.


"You name him Marvolo," said Morfin. The thin green snake slid around his wrist and flicked its tongue at the base of his thumb. "Marvolo Morfin."

* * *

She thought of lots of names for the baby, because the Gaunt women named the babies and not the men, the way that Olympias the Gaunt had named her son Salazar nearly a thousand years ago. She thought of Mordred – _no child of our line will share the name of a filthy half-blood!_ Merope heard her father shouting in her head – and Medea, and Mnemosyne, like her mother. She wanted a little girl, because she thought Tom might love a little girl who was not his own more than a little boy, a stepson who would not be his true heir. She could have a son later, Tom Riddle like his father – because Tom would be his father, he would, she would find ways to refuse Morfin after the baby was born and until she could escape – and then they would all live in that big house together. She had not thought yet of how to keep her father and Morfin from coming to take her away from Tom, but she was working. She wasn't a Squib, no matter what her father said, because Squibs couldn't make such nearly perfect potions, could they?

* * *

"What if I have a girl?" Merope asked.

Morfin slammed his wrist on the table. "Boy! You have a boy first, then a girl. I want a boy, so you're having a boy, you got that?" He had crushed the snake when his wrist hit the wood; its blood began to seep into the table.

"Morfin," she whispered timidly, "it might be a girl. I could have a boy next, couldn't I?"

"You need a girl," said their father. "To have more babies." He smirked. "Remember this, it's the only time you've ever been right about something in your whole bleeding life."

Morfin scowled. "Marvola Morfin," he said at last, and shook the snake's body off his wrist. It hit the wall and slid down.

* * *

The baby began to move inside of her, fluttering like a moth at first, then more strongly, definitely. She didn't tell Morfin the first time it happened, but a week later the baby caught her by surprise and her hand flew to her stomach.

"What're you doing?" he growled.

"The baby moved," said Merope – he stood up, his chair falling backwards behind him, and clamped a thick hand on the underside of her belly.

"Don't feel it." He grabbed roughly onto the hem of her skirt and yanked it up. "Can't through the dress."

"Morfin – " she whispered – she had had to stop wearing underwear because none of it fit anymore. "Morfin, don't – "

His dirty hand pressed against her stomach as he looked at the pale skin of her thighs. "Going to have lots of babies, aren't you? Year from now, time to start the next one."

A year, a salvation of one year for her to gather the child and run. And the child would have to go with her, because she could not leave behind a little girl in this house.

* * *

Perhaps there were Muggle healers who could fix her eyes, and she would have a pale pink bathtub with lavender soap. Her bed would have a satin quilt, with light and dark blue squares, and she could be Tom's pretty wife forever.

* * *

The baby was born at night.

Its spine was curved into a nearly whole circle, and when Merope tried to pull the eyelids back they wouldn't open. When she smoothed back the curly hair she saw that its head sloped inward like a bowl, a very shallow bowl like the cracked dishes in the cupboard. The baby's mouth was barely open, the rosy lips sliding downward misshapenly, and so cold.

It was a little girl, with beautiful skin like milk and the most perfect eyelashes Merope had ever seen.

Morfin giggled. "So, you got your girl, Merope."

* * *

In the distance Merope could see the lights in that big house, Tom's house, as the wind brushed over her. The dark curls of the baby's hair stirred slightly.

She was going to name her, even if she had to bury her the minute after.

Morfin was waiting for her inside.

Their father had raved, thrown a cup across the room, then thrust a dishrag at her for the baby and sent her out into the night.

The little girl deserved a velvet shroud, white for a baby dead before it was born and never acquainted with the sorrows of the world. She deserved a little casket with silver handles and a blooming rosebush next to her grave. Merope kissed her and wrapped the dishrag around her, a scanty cloak for her journey to the other world beyond the veil.

She named her Meliora, because it meant _better_ and that was all that was left, the hope of better things for them both, beautiful flowers watered by tears.


End file.
